Her throat was closing up. Her throat was closing up. He hadn’t gotten her high for fun. He’d poisoned her. “What did—” she started, but she could hardly form the words. She swallowed with difficulty. “Tell me what you gave me or I’ll kill you.”
Martin opened the door from the patio. She looked in that direction. Suddenly Quentin grabbed her wrist and twisted it. She dropped the knife. He wrapped her in a wrestling hold with one arm and both legs while he struggled with the pen.
In a desperate burst, she pulled away and dashed across the marble floor as the dark room closed in on her.
“Grab her!” Quentin said.
She ran full-force into Martin, who caught her and held her firmly. Quentin came at her with the pen.
“Don’t let him,” she tried to say, but her voice was gone, her throat was closed, sparkles flashed in front of her eyes. She whispered, “Martin, don’t let him.”
“Put her down,” Quentin said.
They pushed her, pulled her, manhandled her down to the cold marble floor while she tried to scream. Nine Lives’ full weight was on her chest. His knees pinned her arms. He yelled at her, “Sarah! Hold still and let me give you this shot, or you’re going to die!”
“Martin,” she mouthed desperately.
Martin said soothingly in her ear, “Sarah, I used to be a nurse. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. You’re allergic to bees. You’re going into shock. Your blood pressure has dropped, and you’re seeing things and thinking things that aren’t real. This shot will help you. We keep it here because Q is allergic to everything. Hold still. Okay, you’re passing out, but you’ll come back. There she goes.”
“—was just putting ice on the sting, and she started looking at me like I was the devil,” said Nine Lives. “When I go into shock, I get this feeling of doom like the world’s about to end, but I never think someone’s trying to kill me!”
“You’re wheezing, Q,” Martin said behind Sarah. “Would you get off her? You’ve scared the hell out of her. It doesn’t matter why right now. Go call 911 and use your inhaler.”
Nine Lives lifted his weight off her chest and walked back into the kitchen. He made a terrible noise each time he breathed.
If he was still walking around, he could still hurt her. She reached down and yanked off her shoe and threw it in the direction of the retreating blur—
“—is going to be okay. Everything is fine. It’s over now. You’re fine. Everything is okay,” Martin recited as he rubbed her hand insistently, too hard, so she knew she was alive. The room jumped, jarring dangling cords and tubes. She lay on a stretcher in an ambulance, with Martin sitting beside her.
The siren sounded shrilly, a few chirps. She must not be important enough for the full-blown constant wail. She must be okay.
“Everything is okay,” Martin said.
She looked into his vacant eyes and wondered if he recited this litany to himself as he let the drugs take over.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he murmured, stroking a lock of hair away from her face. “I’ve got your back.”
Quentin sat behind a crash cart with a defibrillator on top. Sarah couldn’t see him, but he could hear her if something went wrong. In the last two hours, everyone he’d worked with at the hospital had walked by and made a comment: “Heard you panicked over a bee sting.” “Heard your girlfriend got stung by a bee and you lost it.” “Heard you didn’t have your shot with you in Thailand and had to go to the ICU. That was stupid.” “How come Martin wins Grammys and you don’t?”
He had a response for the last: “How many hit singles have you written?” But the rest he deserved. And although he normally would take the ribbing in the good-natured way in which it was intended, today he held his head in his hands and wished he could sink into the linoleum.
Over and over he reviewed the weird scene in his mind. He was holding an ice pack to Sarah’s shoulder, and she was there with him, perfectly sane. And then, all of a sudden, she wasn’t. She was like a racehorse that reared back at being pushed toward the starting gate, her muscles taut and strong and moving under her skin, fear and anger making her eyes wild and unseeing. Well, she seemed unseeing, up until she beaned him in the back of the head with her shoe.
He was touching the scab in his hair when Owen and Erin finally came away from Sarah’s bedside. Owen slapped his shoulder supportively and Erin rubbed his back.
Then came Martin. “She wants to see you. Hell if I know why. She was panicking. You panicked, too, and strong-armed her and made it worse. You can’t panic, Q.” He launched one of his impressive cussing performances.
“Martin, he feels bad enough already,” Owen said over the cussing. Erin put a soothing hand on Martin’s chest, to no avail.
Finally the attending hollered across the room, “Martin, get out of my emergency room if you’re going to talk like that. I’m sure Q deserves it, but you need to take it outside.”
Martin flung a few more choice words at Quentin before finishing, “Don’t you touch her again.” He stormed out of the room. Owen and Erin gave Quentin sympathetic looks, then went after Martin.
Ignoring the stares that followed him, Quentin stood up, popped his neck, and walked to Sarah’s bed. The privacy curtains were drawn on either side, leaving only the end of the bed open to the bustling room. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her arms encircling them. She was a small spot of vibrant color in a field of white. As he sat down in the chair drawn up to the bed, he glanced at the monitor and saw that her heart rate, blood pressure, and pulse-ox were back to normal. She watched him with her poker face.
He said, “Tell me what happened in Rio.” He glanced at the monitor again. Her heart rate was going up.
“Martin told me you went into anaphylactic shock like this in Thailand,” she said quickly. “I believe you now, that you don’t do drugs, and allergies and asthma have been sending you to the hospital all along.”
“Great,” he said flatly. “Tell me what happened in Rio.”
She swallowed. “Martin told me this is what happened to your mother, too.”
Quentin nodded grimly. “Rio.”
She shook her head.
“I used to work here,” Quentin said. He moved his finger in a circle in the air. “These people are my friends. They all think I panicked when you went into shock. You don’t panic if you work in the emergency room.” He leaned close to her. “You and I know I didn’t panic. Or”—he gave a small laugh, despite himself—“I didn’t panic first. People with allergies tend to lose it the first time their throats close up, but on top of that you were having some kind of flashback, like you thought I was out to get you. Tell me what happened in Rio. For the sake of our friendship, you have to tell me.”